How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,103
one of the biggest cities in North America. Think of the visuals.”
Both men paused. Imagining it.
It wasn’t an act of destruction they were contemplating, but creation. They would manufacture rage, an outrage so great it would become a crucible. A cauldron. And that would produce a cry for action. And that would need a leader.
“And Gamache?”
“He’s no longer a factor,” said Francoeur.
“Don’t lie to me, Sylvain.”
“He’s isolated. His division’s a shambles. He all but destroyed it himself today. He has no more allies, and his friends have turned away.”
“Gamache is alive.” Francoeur’s companion leaned forward and lowered his voice. Not to conceal what he was about to say. But to drive home a point. “You’ve killed so many, Sylvain. Why hesitate with Gamache?”
“I’m not hesitating. Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to get rid of him. But even people no longer loyal to him would ask questions if he suddenly turned up in the St. Lawrence or was a hit-and-run. We don’t need that now. We’ve killed his career, his department. We’ve killed his credibility and broken his spirit. No need to kill the man, just yet. Not unless he gets too close. But he won’t. I have him distracted.”
“How?”
“By dangling someone he cares about over the edge. Gamache is desperate to save this man—”
“Jean-Guy Beauvoir?”
Francoeur paused a moment, surprised his companion knew that. But then another thought occurred to him. While he was spying on Gamache, was this man spying on him?
It doesn’t matter, thought Francoeur. I’ve nothing to hide.
But still, he felt a sentry rise inside him. A guard went up. He knew what he himself was capable of. He took pride in it even. Thought of himself as a wartime commander, not shrinking from difficult decisions. From sending men to their deaths. Or ordering the deaths of others. It was unpleasant but necessary.
Like Churchill, allowing the bombing of Coventry. Sacrificing a few for the many. Francoeur slept at night knowing he was far from the first commander to walk this road. For the greater good.
The man across the table took a sip of red wine and watched him over the rim. Francoeur knew what he himself was capable of. And he knew what his companion was capable of, and had already done.
Sylvain Francoeur doubled his guard.
* * *
Armand Gamache found the parish registers, in thick leather-bound volumes, exactly where the priest thought they’d be. He pulled a couple from the dusty stacks, taking the one from the 1930s with him to the desk.
He put his coat back on. It was cold and damp in the office. And he was hungry. Ignoring the grumbling in his stomach, he put on his reading glasses and bent over the old book listing births and deaths.
* * *
Francoeur cut through the puff pastry of his salmon en croute and saw the flaky pink fish, with watercress on top. Lemon and tarragon butter dripped out of the pastry.
He took a forkful as his companion ate his braised lamb shank with garlic and rosemary. Silver salvers of baby green beans and spinach sat between them on the table.
“You didn’t answer my question, Sylvain.”
“Which one?”
“Is the Chief Inspector really resigning? Is he signaling his surrender, or trying to lead us astray?”
Francoeur’s eyes went again to the paper, neatly folded on the table. The transcription of the conversation in Gamache’s office earlier that day.
“I began to say that, in my opinion, it doesn’t matter.”
His companion put down his fork and touched the linen napkin to his lips. He managed to make an effete mannerism look quite masculine.
“But you didn’t explain what you meant by that.”
“I mean, he’s too late. It’s all in place from our end. All we need is for you to say the word.”
Francoeur’s fork hovered just above his plate, as he looked across the table.
If the word was given now, they were just minutes from finishing what began decades ago. What started as two idealistic young men, and a whispered conversation, would end here. Thirty years later. With gray in their hair, and liver spots on their hands, and lines on their faces. With crisp linen and polished silver, red wine and fine food. Not with a whisper, but a bang.
“Soon, Sylvain. We’re within hours, perhaps a day. We stick to the plan.”
Like his companion, Chief Superintendent Francoeur knew patience was power. He’d need just a little more of one to achieve the other.
* * *
They were all there.
Marie-Virginie.
Marie-Hélène.
Marie-Josephine.
Marie-Marguerite.
And Marie-Constance.
He’d found the register of their birth. A long list of names,